


Happiness is a butterfly

by orphan_account



Series: Songs for a second chance [1]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Canon Temporary Character Death, De-Aged Mallory, De-Aged Michael Langdon, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Madison is an asshole cat, Post-Canon Fix-It, Queenie just wants to feed her, Redeemed Madison, Snarky Madison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:53:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22489735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Madison gets another chance. A story told in boogers, baked goods and reluctant affection.“The Antichrist,” the headmistresses had said, stunned. She’d eyed the tow-headed boy hissing at her from behind a potted plant and had correctly predicted, "we’ll have to keep a close eye on him.”
Relationships: Madison Montgomery/Queenie, Michael Langdon/Mallory
Series: Songs for a second chance [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636987
Comments: 21
Kudos: 34





	Happiness is a butterfly

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Thanks to Cat_Prince, everythinghappensforareason17 and HadesRuinsEverything for the idea and your invaluable input. All my love to you <3
> 
> Colouring scene inspired by the wonderful edits done by ahs-confessions on Tumblr

“I swear to God, Queenie, if you don’t open this fucking door, I’ll blow it down!” Madison yells, pounding her fist against the wood between her and the voodoo doll’s room in the manor.

“Huff and puff all you want, bitch. I told you it’s a no. This is _your_ destiny.”

Madison smacks her palm against the barrier in frustration and notices that she’s chipped a nail. “CUNT!” she accuses. “All I’m asking for is an hour! One. Goddamn. Hour.”

Queenie chuckles. “That’s not begging. Take your time, I’ll be here all day.”

Huffing a breath, Madison bites her lip and tries not to throw a complete fit. She could burn the door down, but that wouldn’t set a very good example for her charges.

Speaking of, a tug at her free hand has her looking down at the true sources of her vexation.

Michael Langdon, Antichrist Superstar, stares up at her with wide blue eyes and giggles. “You said cunt!”

“That’s a bad word!” Madison’s other annoyance, Mallory, screeches. The tiny Supreme blows her messy hair out of her eyes and points a finger at the older witch accusingly. “You said a swear!”

Madison pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “So? What are you going to do about it?”

Blissfully, Mallory falls silent at the question. Her face scrunches as she fidgets with the hem of her dress, no doubt thinking of an appropriate punishment. Michael grins at her frustration and occupies himself with picking his nose.

Madison dithers for another moment before admitting defeat.

Queenie isn’t going to open the door.

 _Now who’s a selfish slut?_ she thinks. All she wanted was a break and a freaking nap. She’s exhausted.

Leaning her head against the door, she closes her eyes and thinks about the events of the last twenty-four hours. 

There she’d been, back in Hell—haunting the same department store—when Nan had shown up with miniaturized versions of the Antichrist and her time travelling Supreme.

“They’re regenerating,” Nan had said. “Terrible mess, vehicular manslaughter and suicide. Smaller vessels will be easier for their magic to maintain while they heal.”

Madison had blinked at her, confused. “I thought the point was to keep him dead?” she’d said, jerking her head at Michael. “Why bring them back at all?”

Nan, the cryptic bitch, had smirked ambivalently. “The Powers That Be have reached an accord. Both shall live. You’ve been elected to play babysitter while they’re still cooking.”

She’d winked then, a quiet pride in her face. “Congratulations, Madison. You’ve earned your way out of Hell.”

One trip through a portal later, and they’d been back in 2015—the year Michael and Mallory had died for the last time.

Nan had dumped them on the curb outside of Robichaux's Academy and had vanished without a look back.

“Well, kiddos,” Madison had said to the two five-year-olds clinging to her like moss. “Home sweet home.”

Ever the bleeding heart, Cordelia had taken their appearance in stride. Tears of joy in her eyes, she’d squeezed Madison within an inch of her life before allowing her to relay her version of events.

“The Antichrist,” the headmistresses had said, stunned. She’d eyed the tow-headed boy hissing at her from behind a potted plant and had correctly predicted, "we’ll have to keep a close eye on him.”

Not one to be ignored, Mallory had puffed her chest out and declared, “Mikey’s bein a baby. I can make him behave, ‘delia.”

“Cannot!” Michael had shouted.

Amused by the back and forth, Cordelia had simply smiled and shown them to their room.

To Madison’s surprise, her things had been kept in storage in an empty suite down the hall opposite from her old dorm. The space, she’d discovered, was large enough to house a queen-sized bed and a futon for the children.

Cordelia had suggested that they wait until Michael and Mallory regain their adult forms before figuring out other accommodations.

Not that it had mattered. Neither brat had slept a wink until nearly two a.m. 

Head aching from Michael’s assertions that Mallory had cooties and therefore couldn’t share his blankets, Madison had crept out at the witching hour hoping to bum a cigarette from one of the students that she’d seen milling around.

By fate or happenstance, she’d followed her nose to the kitchen instead.

What she’d found there had sent a revolting wave of nostalgia through her person.

Queenie had been humming to herself and pulling a baking sheet from the oven.

“Oh my God,” Madison had moaned, stomach still gurgling despite the dinner Cordelia had personally delivered to her room. “I’d let a B-lister celebrity jizz on my face for a bite of whatever that is.”

Queenie hadn’t turned around. She’d continued transferring her cookies to a cooling rack and had said, tone wry, “a hoe in the after-after life, huh?”

The déjà vu had smacked Madison with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “I missed you,” she’d said honestly.

The words had made Queenie jerk her head around and squint at her suspiciously. “Is this some kind of emotional growth?” she’d asked. “Because I’m not buying it. A bitch can’t change her spots.”

Madison had smirked. “Didn’t you hear? I’m redeemed.”

“Fake news,” Queenie had declared, her lips curving up in a reluctant smile. “You were probably the most annoying soul down there.”

Mortifyingly, the act of trading barbs with an old frenemy had brought tears to Madison’s eyes.

Queenie had been alarmed. _“Are you crying?”_ she’d sputtered. “Did they fry your brain down there?”

“No,” Madison had croaked. “The smell from your musty vag is making my eyes water.”

They’d sniped at each other some more for old times’ sake. Half a dozen cookies later, Michael and Mallory had stumbled in in their transfigured pajamas, looking for a snack. 

Madison had watched Queenie coo at Mallory and help Michael up on the counter and had felt like she wasn’t completely alone in this demented babysitting gig.

It had been nice.

Hence why she’s here now, standing outside of Queenie’s door like an idiot.

 _I take it back,_ she thinks savagely. _I didn’t miss you at all._

Thumping her head against the wood, Madison opens her eyes and pushes back in time to hear Mallory start to whine.

 _“Stoooop._ Maddie, make him stop!”

A wave of her hand separates Michael from Mallory before he can wipe a booger on her sleeve.

“Come on,” Madison says. She pivots on her heel and leads them back down the hall to the main staircase. “There’s got to be some pencil crayons around here that you can stab each other with.”

\--

“You’re hogging the yellow,” Michael complains, kicking the underside of the library table.

Mallory sticks her tongue out at him and frowns, focusing on swirling her pencil around to make the curls of his hair. In her picture, a stick figure version of Michael is laying crumpled and bleeding in the street.

Madison takes a hearty swig of the scotch she’d poured herself from the sidebar (probably Myrtle’s old stuff) and supresses a grimace. “That’s fucked up,” she gusts, chest burning from the alcohol. “You’re a little psycho, aren’t you? I knew the innocent, fawn-eyed stuff was an act. Nobody’s _that_ nice.”

Intelligent brown eyes rise to her face and Madison’s reminded that Mallory has more magic in her stubby pinky finger than she has in her entire body.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that," she finishes weakly. 

Mallory blinks at her and calmly passes Michael the yellow. She picks up the black pencil crayon next and adds tire marks to her paper. She lets Madison hang for a moment before asking, “why didn’t you try harder to get Ms. Queenie to play with you?”

Madison takes another burning swallow and says, “maybe I don’t like her that much.”

“That’s a lie,” Michael announces smugly. “Momma said you shouldn’t lie unless you’re good at it.”

Madison refuses to let a five-year-old fluster her. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she sniffs. “We’re not even nice to each other. We’re grudging allies at best.”

“You should try harder,” Mallory says.

Michael nods his agreement. “You could make a jes-ture. I was gonna let Mal be in my club, but she said no cuz she’s a poopy butt hole.”

Mallory flares her little nostrils like a bull. “You’re the poopy butt hole,” she snaps. “You’re evil.”

The slap fight that ensues is viscous.

Madison thinks about interfering but doesn’t. She’s not interested in losing a limb.

With their magic regenerating, it doesn’t take them long to tire themselves out. They call it a draw when their cheeks are red and they’ve yanked each other’s hair.

Mallory lets Michael have first dibs on the pencil crayons before they resume colouring. Madison notices that they’ve slumped a little closer together so that their elbows are touching.

Gag her, but it’s kind of cute.

\--

Madison thinks about Michael’s suggestion of a “gesture” when she lays in bed that night.

Does she really want Queenie to spend time with her?

The answer is pretty obviously yes.

She might have sought Queenie out on the pretense of shirking her responsibilities, but she’d yearned for the easy pattern of their conversation in the library.

Queenie had been the only Coven member willing to talk to her in the now erased timeline, even if it was just to trade scathing remarks. And even those had lost their bite at the end.

Curling on her side under the blankets, Madison recalls how it had felt to hug Queenie in Hell—the warm press of their bodies unaccountably soothing after years without touch—and feels something clench in her chest.

 _Fuck me_.

She frowns in the dark.

_Maybe the demons did fry my brain._

\--

“More cin-na-mon,” Michael sounds out carefully.

Madison raises an eyebrow at him and dutifully shakes the tin. “That’s what you said about the dill. Do you actually know what you’re doing?”

“Mhmmm.” Michael rocks back and forth on the counter and watches her stir the egg mix for the French toast.

Madison’s doubtful, but they’ve come this far. “So now what? I just dip the bread in the stuff and put it in the pan?” Her culinary skills are limited to boiling water.

“Yep!” Michael chirps. “The pan is ‘spose to sizzle before you put it in.”

 _Here goes nothing_. Madison adds a tab of butter to the skillet on the stove and waits for the telltale sizzle before dipping a slice of bread and dropping it in. She only retches a little at the slimy feel of the eggs. 

“Fucking-A,” she mutters, watching the bread bubble in the pan. “I’m clearly a natural.”

A minute passes and she taps her nails on the counter impatiently. “How do you know when it’s done?”

“You have to flip it,” Michael says sagely.

By the time Madison finds a spatula, the smells coming from the pan are less pleasant and more burnt. She scrapes at a corner, trying to get underneath the edge and curses. _“Shit cunt!”_

“Cunt!” Michael choruses, throwing his hands in the air.

Flipping the toast is easier said than done. When Madison tries, the middle sticks so bad that the bread tears clean in half.

Dark wisps of smoke billow up from the pan and set the detector on the ceiling off.

Of course, it’s at that moment that Mallory pushes through the door to the kitchen, pulling a reluctant Queenie by the hand.

“You can’t go to California Queenie! Maddie has a present for you!” Mallory yells over the beeping.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Queenie demands, surveying the damage in front of her. 

Madison pauses wrist-deep in the sink, where she’s guiltily scrubbing the pan, and wishes that she were back in Hell folding towels.

“It’s all good, I was just—"

“SURPRISE!"

Michael cuts her off with a deafening squeal and hops down from the counter. Reaching up for the plate that he’d been garnishing with whipped cream and syrup, he shuffles over and presents Queenie with the half raw, half charred remains of the French toast. “Maddie made you breakfast!" he says. "Isn’t she the bestest?”

Queenie takes the plate from him and eyes the blackened monstrosity like it's going to bite her. “She’s something alright.” Her tone is withering. She flicks her fingers and the smoke alarm falls silent. “Does someone want to open a window?”

Quietly, Madison shuts the tap off and dries her hands. “I’ve got it.” Arms straining, she pushes open the ancient window above the sink. To her horror, she realizes that she’s chipped another nail.

Queenie stares hard at the side of her face and it makes her want to fidget.

“What?” she barks, gaze fixed on her manicure. “Is the secret ingredient in SlimFast written on my face? Because I’m pretty sure it’s tapeworms.”

Queenie narrows her eyes. “No. Although, the salmonella you were about to give me would have been just as effective.”

Madison rolls her eyes. “Michael wanted French toast.”

“Oh, so this wasn’t for me?”

“No.”

“Uh-huh, sure, and your mom’s not a coke whore.”

Madison crosses her arms defensively. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Right.”

Queenie edges closer like she’s approaching a feral cat. “Since I’m already here, why I don’t I show you how to make pancakes. My plane doesn’t leave for another hour and forty-five minutes.”

Madison eyes her in askance. “You’d do that?”

“I wouldn’t want there to be an accidental poisoning.”

They settle on crepes.

Michael has an accident with the icing sugar, and they all laugh until they can’t breathe.

If Madison stares a little too long at the Nutella at the corner of Queenie’s mouth, no one says anything.

They do the dishes together and Michael and Mallory fight over who gets to dry.

Queenie doesn’t make her plane.

\--

“For you,” Michael says, his cheeks glowing a light pink.

Mallory takes the rose he’d turned black and wills the petals into blue butterflies.

Laughing with delight, Michael chases them around the garden and takes great pleasure in squishing them between his hands.

“Their magic’s getting stronger,” Queenie observes. “Could be any day now.”

They’re seated on the back porch of the manor, enjoying the afternoon breeze. It’s been two days since the breakfast fiasco.

Madison slumps a little and lets her elbow touch Queenie’s. “Ugh,” she mutters, taking a drag off of her cigarette. “Is there like an Easy Bake Oven timer that’s going to go off? I don’t know if I’m ready for them to change back. Michael might try to burn the world down again.”

“I think we’ll be alright.” Queenie’s tone is knowing.

Madison watches the way Michael brings his squished butterflies over for Mallory to revive and thinks that she might just be right.

\--

“Why are you loitering outside my door?”

Madison startles and jerks back from where Queenie’s peering out of her room.

She’d zoned out, thinking about how this was a bad idea.

Case in point.

Panicking, Madison blurts, “I was just wondering if you’ve seen my studded boots?” She shrugs like the ingénue she once was. “Michael took them for a spin earlier and now I can’t find them.”

“And you were looking for them at 1:30 in the morning?”

Another shrug. “Couldn’t sleep. Mallory’s snoring.” Queenie’s tentative nod has Madison jumping on the offensive. “Anyway, what are _you_ doing awake?”

Queenie looks indecisive. She bites her lip and grips the door jamb tighter. “If you promise not to be a bitch, I’ll show you.”

Madison feels that disgusting flutter in her chest at the thought of being invited into the other witch’s sanctum. “Scout’s honour,” she says, crossing an X over her heart.

Queenie snorts. “Scout’s honour my ass. What did you earn badges for? Deep-throating 101?”

Madison waggles her eyebrows. “Paper crafts. I was a menace with the scissors.” She flicks her tongue through the V of her fingers and Queenie makes a face.

“ _Jesus Christ_.” She flings the door wide open and waves a beckoning hand. “You’re nasty. Get in here already.”

Madison steps over the threshold and immediately spies what Queenie was so hesitant to show her. “You’re making poppets?”

Queenie comes over to stand beside her at her desk and reaches a hand out to smooth the felt of one of the dolls there.

Madison feels it like a caress. Her breath catches and she fights not to shiver.

“Cordelia wants the girls to be familiar with voodoo,” Queenie explains. “She doesn’t want to keep us segregated like Fiona.”

“Cool." Madison nods and swallows around the lump in her throat. She keeps her word not to say anything cutting. Truthfully, she thinks it’s a good idea. Dinah might not have been so quick to betray them if she’d had stronger ties to the Coven.

Her easy acceptance has some of the tension bleeding out of Queenie’s frame. Queenie continues, “I’m supposed to give a demonstration, but I thought it might be easier to understand if they could try it for themselves.”

Madison hums consideringly and shoots her a small grin. “You should probably collect them after class so there’s no extracurricular use.” She winces. “Maybe keep them away from Michael too.”

Queenie laughs. “Here I was more concerned about you trying to break someone’s legs.”

Madison cuts her eyes. She thinks about the pain she’s caused and received in her four lifetimes and feels her stomach roil. “I’m more about the pleasure these days."

Queenie gives the doll’s face another stroke. “There you go with that growth again. Careful, or I might think you’re not a bitch.”

Madison huffs and throws her hair over her shoulder. She’s not flushed, it’s just stuffy in Queenie’s room.

“On second thought, maybe I should cut a few inches off of Olivia's hair. I heard her say my pants were too tight.” She reaches for the doll that looks like the academy’s newest recruit and gets her hand smacked.

\--

“Well aren’t you just the cutest!” Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt announces as she sits next to Mallory on the drawing room couch.

Michael hisses at her and presses himself against Mallory’s side. Mallory just smiles and pats his hand.

It’s Coco’s first day at the manor and she’s just finished getting the grand tour.

“I didn’t know that Robichaux's took admissions so young,” she says, thoroughly beguiled by the young Supreme. She reaches out to brush a strand of Mallory’s baby soft hair out of her face and Michael slaps her hand away.

Madison snorts into her Chardonnay. “They’re an exception. Hell was having a fire sale, two for one kindergartners.”

She snickers at Coco’s confused expression and Queenie elbows her in the side. “Will you behave?” Queenie grumbles.

Madison flutters her lashes. “What will you give me if I do?”

Queenie’s eyes go liquid and Madison licks her lips.

“Ice cream!” Michael yells, effectively breaking the tension.

Queenie shuts her eyes and rubs a hand over her face. “You got it, kiddo.”

Coco's gaze is intent on Madison. “You’re going to want to go with non-dairy," she guesses shrewdly. 

\--

Madison’s just walked through the front entrance, having returned the neighbour’s slightly traumatized cat, when Queenie grabs her arm and mimes for her to be quiet.

Confused but willing to play along, she lets the other girl lead her over to the entrance of a small sitting room.

Michael and Mallory are there, fully grown, entangled in each other and sleeping on the floor in a patch of sunlight.

Queenie brings her lips to Madison’s ear and whispers, “they changed back while I was in the kitchen making their snack.”

Madison revels in the feel of her breath on her sensitive skin and presses back into her chest. She turns her head and their lips are centimetres apart. “That’s a shame,” she whispers back. “Now you have no excuse to feed me ants on a log.”

Queenie rolls her eyes. “Madison,” she says, squeezing her waist. “Shut up.”

She does and Queenie kisses her.

It’s been eight days since Madison returned from Hell and only now does it feel real.

Eyes closing, she lets herself sink into the feel of Queenie’s mouth on hers. It's a perfect moment. Or it is until someone lets out a rather mouse-like squeak. 

Reluctantly, Madison pulls away from the kiss and turns to see that Michael and Mallory are awake.

Mallory clenches her hands reflexively in the cotton of Michael’s shirt and his expression becomes downright predatory.

“Mallory,” he says, voice deep and dark. “You ran me over. _Three times_.”

Mallory gulps and raises her chin determinedly. “I did and I’m not sorry.”

Michael’s face does something peculiar then, blue eyes softening as his brow wrinkles. “Oh, good,” he purrs. “Glad we cleared that up.” And then he’s kissing her.

Madison sympathizes with Mallory’s shocked moan.

Turning back to Queenie, she says, tone casual, “so you never did tell me what you’d give me for good behaviour.”

Queenie smirks. Eyes locked, she teases her fingers across the top of her own breast and pinches her nipple.

Madison gasps, skin pebbling with the sensation. “Is that all you’ve got?” she taunts.

Queenie shakes her head. “Bitch, you’ve only got five lives left and I’m about to take several of them.”

Madison purses her lips, wholly and completely content. “Promises, promises.”


End file.
